Easy Bourbon Chicken

Fall in Kentucky. The trees are turning. The construction site is in the last push before winter — getting houses under roof, closing them in, racing the weather. My back is bad this month. Worse than usual. The discs are degenerating, which the doctor (yes, I finally went, Connie won that war) says is irreversible and progressive and will eventually require either surgery or lifestyle change, and by "lifestyle change" he means "stop lifting things," which is my job and my identity and apparently also the thing that's destroying my spine. The irony is not lost on me.

Clay went to the VA psychiatrist. He came home and didn't say much. He ate dinner — soup beans, Monday — and went to his room. Later, Connie told me he'd told her a little: the psychiatrist diagnosed him with PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Official. Clinical. Named. The thing I suspected, the thing I recognized, the thing I've been carrying unnamed for twenty-eight years — Clay has the named version. He has the diagnosis. He has the letters. P.T.S.D. Four letters that explain the drinking and the sleeplessness and the flinching and the garage and the way his voice went flat on the phone from Afghanistan and hasn't fully come back.

I have PTSD too. I've never been diagnosed. I've never seen a psychiatrist. I've managed it with bourbon and cooking and the specific Appalachian approach to mental health, which is: don't talk about it, work harder, and hope the work drowns out the noise. This approach has kept me functional for twenty-eight years. It has also kept me limited — limited in my ability to be vulnerable, limited in my emotional range, limited in the conversations I can have with my wife and children and mother about the thing that sits in my chest like a stone from the mine that never fully came out.

Clay has a diagnosis. Clay has a psychiatrist. Clay is doing what I didn't do — naming the thing, facing it, letting someone with training help him carry it. I am proud of this even as I am terrified of it. Naming the thing is braver than carrying it unnamed. My son is braver than I am. He's braver than Earl was. He's braver than any Hensley who ever went into a mountain and came out silent.

I made fried chicken this week. Not because of any recipe need but because fried chicken is the thing I make when I need the kitchen to do what I can't: hold everything together with heat and oil and the specific alchemy of Betty's batter hitting hot Crisco at 325 degrees. The chicken held. The kitchen held. I held. Barely. But I held.

I said fried chicken and what I meant was any chicken, cooked the way Betty taught — with heat and patience and something in the pan that smells like it means it. This bourbon chicken is close enough to that: it’s got the caramelized edges, the sweet-salt pull, and the bourbon that does what bourbon does when it hits something hot — burns off the worst of it and leaves behind the flavor. If you’re cooking the week your son gets four letters he’ll carry the rest of his life, you want something in the skillet that moves fast and finishes strong. This is that.

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 30 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

2 lbs boneless, skinless chicken thighs, cut into bite-sized pieces
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1/4 cup bourbon
1/4 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup brown sugar, packed
2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
2 tablespoons ketchup
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
1 tablespoon cornstarch
2 tablespoons cold water
Sliced green onions and sesame seeds, for garnish
Cooked white rice, for serving

Instructions

Make the sauce. In a small bowl, whisk together the bourbon, soy sauce, brown sugar, apple cider vinegar, ketchup, garlic powder, ginger, and red pepper flakes. Set aside.
Brown the chicken. Heat vegetable oil in a large skillet or cast iron pan over medium-high heat. Add chicken pieces in a single layer and cook without stirring for 3–4 minutes, until browned on the bottom. Flip and cook another 2–3 minutes.
Add the sauce. Pour the bourbon sauce over the browned chicken. Stir to coat. Reduce heat to medium and let the sauce come to a simmer. Cook for 8–10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the chicken is cooked through and the sauce thickens slightly.
Thicken if needed. In a small bowl, mix cornstarch and cold water until smooth. If the sauce needs more body, pour in the cornstarch slurry and stir. Cook another 1–2 minutes until the sauce clings to the chicken.
Finish and serve. Taste and adjust salt or sweetness as needed. Serve over white rice and top with sliced green onions and a pinch of sesame seeds.

Nutrition (per serving)

Easy Bourbon Chicken — The Thing That Holds When Everything Else Doesn’t